


Time of Dying

by The_Buzz



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU from 2x01, Aftermath of character death, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, But for understandable reasons, Character Death, Character Study, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Gen, Ghost Dean, Guilt, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, John Angst, John Winchester Being an Asshole, John Winchester and Sam Winchester Fight, Misunderstandings, POV Dean Winchester, POV John Winchester, POV Sam Winchester, Parent John Winchester, Sam Angst, Suicide Attempt, Winchester Family - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-15 18:07:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5794492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Buzz/pseuds/The_Buzz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU from 2x01. When Azazel refuses to make a deal with John, Dean dies. John and Sam have to try to cope with Dean's death and with each other. But Dean's not quite gone. Lots of angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Buckle your seatbelts, folks, because this is a sad one. I really just couldn't shake the idea of what would happen if Dean did die. Dean has always been a buffer between John and Sam, and I wanted to see how they'd handle 1) Dean's death and 2) having to be deal with being alone together on top of that. 
> 
> The story is mostly written, and I'll post a new chapter every week or so. The chapter count is approximate because I'm not totally sure how I'm going to break it up yet.

_I mean, come on you can't, you can't leave me here alone with Dad. We'll kill each other, you know that._

-Sam, “In My Time of Dying”

* * *

Azazel said no. Or rather, more specifically, Azazel said, “Why should I give you Dean? I don’t want the gun that much. I don’t even want your soul that much.” And when John had stared at him flatly, uncomprehending, he’d added, “No, John, I want you to suffer. I want you to live with knowing that you let your own son die just for the chance to get me here. And he will die, John.”

John looked into his yellow eyes, and saw only that he was telling the truth. He pulled the trigger.

The bullet hit Azazel squarely between the eyes and he fell, the demonic energy sparking and sizzling as he crumpled unceremoniously to the ground. It was all John had wanted for more than twenty years. Now, he just felt hollow, like someone had gone and scooped out everything that made him human.

Dean was going to die. And it would be his fault.

He limped up the stairs, shoulder aching, bullet wound in his leg searing with each step, and wondered how on earth he’d explain this to Sam.

-

Dean died at 10:31am. His body had seized and started shaking, and the doctors and nurses had tried everything, apparently, or so they’d told Sam when he’d grabbed one nurse and demanded— _demanded_ —that they do more. When it was obvious there really was nothing else anyone could do, Sam took Dean’s limp hand in his own and said his name over and over again. 

Dean had been there. In the hospital. Hunting the reaper. Maybe if he heard Sam, he’d come back.

He didn’t.

Sam swallowed his tears, and the irrational fear—what if Dean did come back to his body, and he wasn’t there?—and went to John’s room to break the horrible news. Someone had to tell their dad, and he didn’t want it to be some nameless, faceless nurse.

John wasn’t there. Neither were the summoning supplies.

He turned around and went back to Dean. The anger inside of him burned so cold he could barely remember having ever felt anything else. Dean was dead, and Dad didn’t know because he’d been summoning the god damn demon. Dean was dead and Dad had _missed it_.

Sam was barely aware that he was crying. 

-

When the reaper gave him a choice, it took Dean about half a second to answer. No. He wasn’t going with her. Not while his family was still down here. He couldn’t leave. Sam and his dad were going to tear each other apart.

Tessa, or whatever her name really was, nodded and left him alone.

He went back to Sam, just in time to watch his little brother stand shocked in the door of the little room as Dean’s body bucked and heaved and then went still. Dean glanced down at himself, at the hospital scrubs he’d apparently be spending eternity in, and wished he’d died in his jeans at least. He didn’t feel any different.

He followed Sam to their dad’s room and back, as chilled as he was by the pure ire in Sam’s face as he was disappointed that John hadn't been there. He sat on the edge of the bed where his body lay while Sam cried again—silent tears that ran down his face and dripped off his chin—and spoke to Dean. Told him how sorry he was. How he missed him already. How he loved him.

John limped in a few minutes later. He stopped, taking in the scene, then asked in a voice that didn’t betray nearly the emotion Dean might’ve hoped for, considering it was his own son’s damn dead body lying on the bed, “Sam?”

Sam got up slowly, and turned, and said in a deceptively calm voice, “He’s dead. You missed it.”

“I killed the Yellow-Eyed Demon,” John said.

Dean expected Sam to punch him. But Sam just stood in icy silence, then turned back to Dean’s body. “Good for you.”


	2. Chapter 2

They gave Dean a proper hunter’s funeral. Standing side by side with Sam, John watched the flames and thought of the fire that had consumed Mary so many years ago. He’d told himself so many times it was worth it, that hunting the thing that had killed her was truly all he could do. Ten feet from the burning corpse of his boy, ignoring the pork dinner smell that wafted all around them, John couldn’t see how that could possibly be true. Sam had been right.

 _Not before everything_.

The memories came unbidden.

Dean as a baby, cooing at him from Mary's arms. Dean at four, taking Sammy in his arms and running down the stairs. Dean at five, smiling when John ruffled his hair. Dean at ten, his tongue poking out of his mouth in concentration as he put his weapon back together for the first time. At thirteen, already a ladies' man, smirking assuredly at the girls when John picked him up from middle school. Dean at sixteen, standing tall beside John, watching the werewolf burn with pride. Dean at twenty-two, quietly fielding John's anger and stony silence when Sam left for Stanford. Dean at twenty-six, bleeding on the dingy cabin floor and begging Sam to please not to shoot.

John wished, with every fiber of his being, that Sam had.

He would have given Yellow-Eyes the Colt. He would have given him his soul. But the demon had been right—and now, for all that John had _won_ , he’d have to spend the rest of his life feeling the weight of what he’d lost.

Dean had gone to the grave thinking that John wasn’t even proud of him.

His chest felt tight and his throat was burning. Tears pricked his eyes, but he told himself it was the smoke from the funeral pyre. Beside him, Sam was crying, silent but for the occasional sniffle.

They stayed out there until the fire died down and night fell, bringing with it a chill breeze that whipped across the South Dakota plains and made them both shiver. 

Sam didn’t say a single damn word to him the whole time.

-

When they came in from the funeral, smelling of smoke and fire, dirty from building the pyre, Bobby had been there waiting for them. He enveloped Sam in a tight hug, which was more than John had done so far. Sam had to resist the urge not to turn into pathetic, sobbing jelly right there. He thought about what Dean would say. “Cryin’ like a girl, Sammy?” Or, “That’s weak, man. Pull it together. I don’t want to see you bawlin’ over me.”

Of course, thinking about that only made him want to do it more.

So he thought instead about how John hadn’t even acknowledged that Sam might be a little upset his brother was dead. Hell, his dad had barely reacted at all. It was like he didn’t even care that Dean was dead. As Bobby let go of him, clapping him on his shoulder with a deeply sympathetic expression, Sam was dry-eyed again.

Coming to Bobby’s had made the most sense. It wasn’t as if they had anywhere else to do. And just as he’d promised, Bobby had welcomed John back into his house with no more than a, “Sorry this ain’t better circumstances.” John had only grunted in response.

Bobby had set them both up in the guest rooms he kept for hunters in need of a place to say. They were the same rooms he’d put up Sam and Dean when they were kids, and Sam had to fight back another wave of disbelief and grief as the memories crashed down around him. Dean, showing him how to clean his favorite guns, right there. Being much younger and running into Dean’s room in the night when the creaking of the old house had scared him, and Dean laughing as he’d told him, _There aren’t any ghosts here, stupid_. Playing Bobby’s old board games splayed out on the frayed, circular area rug beside the bed, and giggling when Dean pretended to make the little monopoly pieces talk. They’d spend a lot of time in those rooms, talking at night in low voices about when John would come back and where they’d go next and, sometimes, even Sam’s dreams of leaving the family for a normal life. For all he'd learned it had hurt Dean later on, Dean had never given him a clue back then.

Sam wished he’d never left. Those four years at Stanford were four whole years he could’ve spent with Dean. Four years that he’d never get back.

Sam found that he couldn’t wait to get out of his house. He buried his head in his pillow and wished he had anything to distract him the gaping hole in his life where his brother used to be. Even if Dean had been in the hospital as a spirit, he was gone now. And gone forever.

The tears came again, and Sam sobbed carefully, and quietly, into the pillow. Eventually, though he had no memory of it, he fell asleep.

-

“It’s not salvageable,” John told Sam flatly, gazing over the twisted hulk that had once been his Chevy Impala. “We’ve got the truck.”

Or, rather, they would have the truck when Bobby took them out to pick it up. It had plenty of space enough in the cabin for two, which was all they’d need. Once, John had liked having the Impala around because it reminded him of Mary. Now, he wanted it as far away as he could get it. It was Dean’s car. _Had been_ Dean’s car.

Sam was being stubborn. It was the most he’d said to John since Dean had died. His arms were folded and he was glaring at John like he hated the sight of him.

“You’re not scrapping it. As long as one part’s still working—I’ll fix it.”

John snorted his disbelief, shifting his arm in his sling. As funny as the thought was, it also brought to mind how Dean would have insisted on fixing it too. The pain helped pull him away from that.

“You,” he said, letting his voice drip with disbelief. "Rebuild that thing from the bottom up. You even know where to start?”

He could see the tears shining in Sam’s eyes again, and felt a little guilty. But it was nothing compared to the monumental weight of how he’d failed Dean, and so it fell by the wayside. He didn’t want the damn car around. He’d loved teaching Dean how the engine worked, and had barely been able to contain his pride at how deftly his boy had taken to tinkering with her, even when Sammy had turned up his nose. When Dean had turned eighteen, giving him the car had seemed the only thing to do, and Dean had lit up like all his Christmases had come at once. He couldn’t look at the twisted frame without seeing Dean’s young face shining with a smile, and that was almost more than he could bear.

“I’ll figure something out,” Sam said tightly. “Bobby’s got the parts. I can do this.”

“No, you can’t,” John said.

In the end, he lost the argument.

-

Dean had been worried about how he’d cling to the mortal coil after they burned his body until he remembered that racist truck that had terrorized Cassie’s family and her father’s friends a couple months back. As his body turned to ash, he slipped into the Impala, and found that it grounded him just as well. He was also pretty glad to hear Sam fighting to keep it. Finding another object to jump into might not’ve been easy.

Also, it was his friggin’ car. He couldn’t believe his dad would just go and scrap it like that. But then, he’d never have thought John would have let him die without making a phone call or trying a single damn thing. No, in line with Sam’s worst accusations—the kind that Dean had argued with fruitlessly for so many years—his dad had just done nothing but go after the demon one last time. Dean gathered that Yellow-Eyes was dead. He found that he really didn’t care. 

He’d spent the last day wandering the grounds of Singer Auto, mostly following Sam, sometimes his dad, sometimes Bobby. He tried to make his presence known but it seemed his ghost mojo was still too weak. Sam had hadn’t tried to talk to him, either, since he and Dad had torched his body.

So he was all the more surprised when, late that night—long after Sam and John and Bobby had retired to their rooms—Dean heard his name ring out through the thick silence. He walked right through the wall to Sam’s room, only to find his little brother kneeling on the rug beside his bed in his sweatpants, head bowed.

“I know you can’t hear me,” Sam said, “but I miss you, man. Me and Dad—we could never do this without you. I don’t know how we’re gonna do it now. It’s like he doesn’t even care. But I saved your car, Dean. I wouldn’t let him scrap it.” An expression like a smile crossed his face and it took Dean a few seconds to realize that Sammy was just trying not to cry. “I did that much.”

Dean bowed his head in sympathy, and wished to God he could get strong enough talk to Sam before his little brother broke into pieces entirely. Unsurprisingly, God didn’t do a damn thing.


	3. Chapter 3

It was only the second day they’d been there and John was already fed up with Bobby’s shit. Bobby was being damned annoying, hovering around Sam like he wanted to be the boy’s father. Hovering around John like he thought John couldn’t take care of himself. Even when he wasn’t doing anything he was just _there_ , acting as sad and downtrodden as if his own child had died. Sure he’d cared about Dean, and watched after the boys a couple of times when they’d been young, but that didn’t give him the right.

John longed to pick a fight, and the longer he harbored that helpless frustration the more he saw to fight about. The incessant mother henning was the easiest to snap at. Bobby was insisting that John eat, that he change the dressing on his leg, and that he not spend the whole week sitting on the floor in his room staring at the picture of him and the boys he’d always tucked into the mirror in every place he holed up.

That old creased and faded photo of John, Dean, and Sam, perched on the hood of the Impala: Sam on John’s lap, characteristically annoyed, Dean in flannel and a baseball cap, smiling and squinting into the sun. It had been a crisp fall day and Bobby—ironically enough—had snapped the picture just after John had packed the boys’ belongings into the trunk to set off across the country on a hunt.

He’d’ve given anything to get those days back. Hard as life had been, grieving Mary, learning how to find and kill monsters and how not to get killed himself, trying to raise two boys on the road with no real source of income to speak of. Sometimes it had been real rough. Some days, he hadn’t thought he could do it at all.

He’d never realized how lucky he’d been.

John rubbed the ball of his thumb over the image of Dean’s face. Hell, he’d have given anything even to see his boy one more time.

He thought, maybe, that he should try spending some time with Sam. Appreciate the one son he did still have, and all that. But the thought of opening up to Sam at all, even just to find how Sam was doing, scared him more than he’d ever admit. Because sooner or later, it would come out that John had tried to save Dean and he’d failed.

John knew that Sam was royally pissed at him now. Moreso than maybe he’d ever been. But now, John could tell himself that Sam’s anger stemmed from him thinking John hadn’t tried to save Dean. If Sam were to know the truth, well, John would just have to face up to whatever Sam really thought of him. He knew it made him a coward, but he couldn't do it.

Instead, John sat and stared hard at the picture, remembering how little Sam had wrinkled his nose and groaned about moving _again_ a second after the photo had been snapped. Before John could tell little Sammy to shut his trap—he was not about to listen to the kid whine for all of a twelve-hour drive—Dean had taken Sammy by the shoulders and reminded him (with a quick, supportive glance at John) that Dad had to go, and did Sam know about all the amazing things they’d see along the way? Sam had stopped complaining and John remembered feeling damn grateful.

Yellow Eyes had told Dean that Sam was the clear favorite, and John had seen in Dean’s eyes that he believed it. Hell, he’d half-believed it himself. As John gazed at the picture, though, a lump forming in his throat, it seemed entirely too clear which son would have been easier to lose.

That was a thought he didn’t want to dwell on.

In any case, as far as he knew, Sam didn’t want to talk to him either. The kid had spent the last however many hours engrossed in the Impala owner’s manual or watching video after video online on how to replace damn near every part a car could have. The last time John had come near him, Sam had buried his head deeper in the booklet and pretended not to notice him. John’d left without a word.

Around noon, he limped around Bobby’s dusty kitchen until he found the bottle of good whiskey hidden on the shelf above the fridge. His leg burned where the bullet had gone in. He recalled the night in the cabin—hurting Dean with his own hands, begging Sam to just shoot him while Dean choked out “don’t” on the floor—so suddenly and vividly that he had to open the bottle and take a long swig right there.

Dean had died before John had had the chance to tell him that none of what Yellow-Eyes had said was true. Or, rather, that some of it wasn’t. That was worth another pull from the bottle. John _had_ been a shit father. Dean had died thinking John couldn’t care less about him, that he wasn’t even proud.

His chest felt tight again and he told himself it was just the alcohol burning its way down.

“I was savin’ that,” Bobby said from the doorway, leaning against it with his arms crossed. But his round face was still soft with pity that John wanted none of.

He knew Bobby was expecting a “for what?” or something else that might open up a conversation between them. Wasn’t the first time he’d tried something like that. John didn’t want any of that either. Not while Dean was still a clump of ashes buried in the loose soil outside of Bobby’s salvage yard.

He took another long swig, tipping the bottle back and closing his eyes as the whiskey went down.

“Mind sharin’ at least?” Bobby said.

John opened his eyes and gave him a flat stare. For a moment, more than anything, he wanted to hurl the glass bottle straight at the older hunter’s head.

“Got cups and everything,” Bobby added with a meaningful glance at the bottle John was still grasping by the neck.

For a few seconds, John just kept staring. Whether the older hunter was looking to have a heart-to-heart, or just wanted to drown his own sorrows, John couldn’t tell. His fingers twitched around the bottle. He wanted to hurt someone. Anyone. Honestly, Bobby was just convenient.

“Fuck you,” John said.

He hesitated a moment, fist clenching around the glass, then let out a sharp breath and pushed right past Bobby. But his busted shoulder clipped the door frame by mistake and he froze, grunting as the pain reverberated all the way down his arm. In that moment, Bobby caught him by the good arm and turned him around.

“You gotta start dealing with this, John,” Bobby said. “Whatever that means for you.”

“I am dealing with it,” John said. His good arm tensed and he thought about swinging it up and letting loose all his rage and frustration. It was better than Bobby deserved, holding him up like this. Trying to make him _feel_ when all he wanted was a lonely oblivion.

“I know you didn’t lift a finger, John,” Bobby said calmly. “When Dean was lying there. Now, I’m sure you’ve got your reasons, but whatever they are, you gotta deal with them.”

Snorting his anger, John pulled free of Bobby’s grasp and shoved past him toward the stairs, tipping the bottle back again as he went, sure of one thing and one thing only—there was no way in hell he could stay here. Not with Bobby giving him _that_ , not while what was left of Dean sat in the ground not fifty yards away. Soon as he had the truck… soon as he had anywhere to go…

Still, before long, the whiskey had done its job and John was laid out on his back on the unmade bed, staring at the ceiling. And for the first time since they’d set Dean on that pyre he became aware he hadn’t slept in days, not since before Yellow Eyes had climbed into him and destroyed him. Together, the whiskey and the exhaustion dragged him down, and he closed his eyes and willed the darkness to take him. Soon as he had the truck, he thought, the idea swirling around in his mind like it couldn’t find the right way up. Soon as he had somewhere to go. And then it all went black.

-

His dad was drunk again. Or at least Sam assumed he was, since it was after eleven in the morning and he hadn’t seen him since breakfast—not that John was eating much anyway. Despite Bobby’s cajoling John had spent most of the last four days drinking in his room alone, with occasional breaks to dig up books on resurrection and dark magic and angels, only to toss them aside and stomp back to his room to start drinking again. Walking around, he looked gaunt and haggard, dark circles under his eyes and a scowl etched permanently on his face. When Bobby tried to convince him to eat, he’d stubbornly refuse. The two hunters had nearly come to blows one time Bobby had insisted he change the bandage on John's leg before it got gangrene.

All in all, it was pissing Sam off. John wasn’t the only one who was hurting. He wasn’t the only one who missed Dean. He wasn’t the only one who wanted to lash out. Hell, if anything, John had the least right to take out his feelings on everyone else. He hadn’t even been there. He hadn’t even tried.

In a conscious effort to be nothing like John, Sam was biting down on his own anger—most of it aimed, admittedly, at John himself—and keeping his head down. He stayed away from the booze, tempting though it was, and ate three meals a day, no matter how little appetite he had. He didn’t talk to John except when he absolutely had to. The truth was, he didn’t trust himself to say anything civil, and the last thing he wanted to do was give Bobby another headache when Bobby had already done so much for him. Rather, when he could, he helped Bobby around the house, deflected Bobby’s concerned glances and insisted that, yes, he really did want to do the dishes tonight.

He found it was easier to get through the day if he kept busy.

Luckily, he had plenty to do. At the moment, Sam was under the Impala, trying to figure out from the owner’s manual and half a dozen posts on classic car forums how to put in a new oil pan and whether he had to replace some other broken, twisted part before he could. He scooted out to check the manual, then back under to see if he could find the part the pan was supposed to be anchored to, only to discover that it had been crunched into a near-unrecognizable shape.

There was something soothing in the labor. After years of assuming that Dean liked tinkering because it was something you didn’t have to think too much to do, it amazed him just how much problem-solving went into the work. It amazed him just how wrong he’d been. About the car, and about his brother.

He imagined he could feel Dean’s presence beside him as he put his Baby back together. Sometimes, losing himself in it, Sam could almost forget that he was never going to see Dean again. Other times, up to his elbows in Baby’s insides, smelling the oil and hot metal and feeling the gravel under his back, remembering Dean in exactly the same position—smirking up at him and telling him to keep away from the engine before he broke something—Sam felt the great void that had been Dean’s presence open up even wider to swallow him.

Still, he’d had to pause because the tears in his eyes made it too hard to see fewer times with each passing day. It wasn’t that he was feeling any more okay with it, because that was impossible. He was just…learning to live to live with the ache.

Sometimes, as he worked, he imagined he heard Dean’s voice. Snatches of that low grumble—not as deep as their dad’s yet (would never be)—warning him, _Sam, you’d better do this right. Don’t you dare screw up my car._ Once, he’d even thought he heard Dean’s voice saying, _Not right there, that’ll hit the carburetor when the engine’s on_ , and when he’d found the right place for the part, a relieved, _That’s better, Sammy_. (The voice, wherever in Sam’s subconscious it had come from, had been right.)

He knew it was impossible that he was actually hearing Dean. They’d salted and burned Dean’s body, and that meant Dean wasn’t coming back. Still, he’d have been lying to himself if he didn’t admit that at least part of the reason he spent every day working on the car from dawn ‘til dusk was for the chance to hear (imagine) Dean’s voice again.

For a few moments, resting on his back with one hand still resting on the oil pain, he missed Dean so bad it felt like a physical pull. That, unlike the crying, didn’t seem to be happening any less as the days went by.

He forced himself to focus on the car. The thing the oil pan had been connected to. He needed to figure out what it was. He reached out and jiggled it, then—

“Sam?”

It was Bobby’s voice, and it startled him, for he’d almost been expecting Dean’s.

Sam scooted out from under the car again and wiped the sweat off his face, squinting in the bright South Dakota sunlight.

“You have a moment?” Bobby asked.

Sam sat up, then stood and tried to brush the dust from the lot off his T-shirt and jeans. He wasn’t sure why he bothered. 

“Sure,” he said easily, glad his voice sounded steady. “What’s up?”

So far, Bobby had only made a few soft attempts at convincing him to spill his feelings, but he knew the older hunter was capable of it.

“You have to talk to your daddy,” Bobby said.

That froze Sam immediately. “Why?” The word came out a little huffier than he’d planned it.

 “Why?” Bobby echoed incredulously. “Because he’s your daddy, that’s why. Only family you got left now, if I recall.”

Sam took a deep breath. Working on the car, he’d managed to spend most of his days not talking to John, or even thinking about him, but the anger was quick to rise to the surface. He knew, of course, that it wasn’t fair to take it out on Bobby. It was just Bobby that didn’t understand.

“It’s his fault Dean is dead,” Sam said in a clipped tone. “He said he’d try to save him, and instead he went after the demon. Dean died and he _wasn’t even there_.”

He blinked several times and hoped Bobby didn’t notice that angry tears were forming in his eyes again.

“I know what he did,” Bobby said softly. Because of course he’d noticed. “Ain’t saying I agree with it.”

“Yeah?” Sam shot back. “So what are you saying?”

Bobby raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’m sayin’ you need to talk to the man. He’s in a dark place and I’d say he needs you right now. …And you need him, whether you want to admit it or not. You two are all you’ve got left.”

Sam clenched his jaw, and tried to think of an answer that wouldn’t make him sound like a whiny kid or an uncaring ass. Truth be told, he _wanted_ John to suffer for what he’d done. Wanted him to feel the full weight of guilt. It was _his fault_ after all.

“Look,” Bobby sighed. “All I’m saying is, you could both probably use a little time with the only other person in the world who knows how you feel.”

“He has no idea how I feel,” Sam snapped.

“Dean was—”

Sam cut him off right there. “Dean died, and he was hunting. I’m not picking up the pieces.”

Bobby gave him a long look. “Your positions reversed. You think that’s what Dean would say?”

Sam’s jaw clenched, and he found he couldn’t even answer over the swell of emotions crashing through him. Somehow, it was the _nerve_ of it that really got to him—what right did Bobby have to tell him what Dean would have done? It didn’t matter that Bobby was right. Abruptly, Sam turned back to the car, and didn’t say another word to him until much later that night.

Two days later, Sam and John left Bobby’s, together.


	4. Chapter 4

When Sam and Dad pulled the Impala up on a flatbed trailer and hitched it to Dad’s truck, then piled all the spare parts salvaged from Bobby’s yard into the truckbed, Dean breathed (well, not really) a sigh of relief. He found, through countless hours’ exploration, that he could stray a couple hundred yards from the twisted remains of the car before his baby pulled him inexorably back. But a couple hundred yards wouldn’t’ve meant crap if Sam and Dad had left her at Singer Auto and gone their merry way. As much as he liked Bobby, Dean didn’t really want to spend the rest of eternity tethered to the man’s salvage yard.

He was glad Sammy was still working on the car. When Sam was in mechanic mode, Dean liked to sit beside him. He gave encouragement that Sam couldn’t hear, and the occasional advice, and the not-so-occasional, “Oh, God, don’t do that.” (His little brother was picking it all up a lot faster than Dean would have expected, considering he hadn’t come near the inside of the Impala since he’d been shorter than Dean, and always under John’s watch eye… but he still made the occasional mistake that just made Dean cringe.)  A few times Dean had reached out for a wrench or a bolt and fancied he could see it move, but that might’ve been wishful thinking on his part.

Dean also followed Sam when Sam went to visit his grave. He even brought flowers once, from somewhere—Dean hadn’t been able to follow him far enough to see where he’d gotten them. Most days, he just bowed his head and talked to Dean, told him about how he was fixing the car and how great Bobby had been and always, how much he missed him and loved him and wanted him back. About how he and Dad were still fighting. They were talking now, at least.

Sam told him, during one of their one-sided grave-side chats, that he was doing it for Dean. Dean hadn’t had any idea what he meant.

Most of the time, Sam spoke, and Dean listened and wished to hell he could answer. He always tried to say something or appear but all he got was once for Sam to look around, puzzled, before he shrugged and went back inside. It was a start, but it wasn’t damn near enough. Dean remembered knocking the glass in the hospital to the floor in frustration, but even that level of emotion was getting hard to muster up. He wondered, vaguely, how long it took for most ghosts to lose their grip on their old selves entirely.

He was glad Sam was talking to him. He was more than a little afraid of what would happen if he stopped once Dean's grave was far behind him.

John, on the other hand, hadn’t been back to Dean’s grave since they’d put up the marker Bobby and Sam had made out in Bobby's woodshop.

Sam had called John an uncaring bastard for that, and John had snapped back that crying over it wasn’t going to bring Dean back any more than fixing the car was. That had been their first real fight, and Dean had watched the next half hour of shouting back and forth like a car wreck he couldn’t look away from. When it was done, John shoved past Sam so forcefully that he nearly walked right through a surprised Dean on the way past, leaving Sam breathing heavily and staring at a spot on the carpet with his fists clenched. Dean thought it was a bit ironic, seeing as how it had come not twenty-four hours after Sam's heartfelt statement that he was doing this for Dean.

But that had blown over within the day. As angry as Sam seemed to be all the time, and as mercurial as John’s moods had been over the past week, neither seemed as interested in holding a grudge as they once had been. Sam was...doing whatever Sam was doing. And John, in between the drinking and the moping, just didn't seem to have the energy. Dean was glad for that at least. He’d never liked watching his dad and his brother fight. 

Growing up, Dean had always played the arbiter, careful not to take a side. Maybe it had been his year alone with Sam, or Dad’s uncaring reaction to his death. But it was hard to stay as neural as he once had. To not to see his dad as irresponsible, lashing out at his son when he should have been doing his damndest to help him through the pain like any decent parent would. It had been one thing when John had treated Dean like that, after Mom died. Now, it made Dean’s hackles rise. Sam deserved better.

But, fighting aside, Sam and John were heading away from Bobby's together, to some backwoods cabin in Wyoming. Apparently, John wanted to move on ( _away from where Dean was laid to rest_ , Dean thought in the bad hours. _Like he didn’t want to have to think about Dean anymore_ ), and for whatever damn reason, Sam was along for the ride. John had grumbled his doubts at Sam but when he'd turned away, Dean had seen relief in his face. John wanted to be near Sam. Not Dean.

 _That’s more consideration than he’s ever shown you_.

He’d had to shove the memory of Yellow-Eyes’ voice away. That was the thing about being a ghost. There was nobody talk to, nobody to chase away the thoughts that plagued him through the long days and lonely nights. Not even when the two people he’d always relied on to pull him out of his thoughts were sitting on either side of him in the Sierra’s cabin. 

John had turned the radio on, early on, to a classic rock station, and now it was softly playing “November Rain.” Neither John—who insisted that no music worth listening to had been made after 1980—nor Sam—who listened to sissy bands or emo and whatever else college kids were into—actually liked Guns N Roses, but perhaps they felt Dean’s presence after all, because neither of them reached out to turn it off. 

“So…what now?” Sam asked.

John glanced over at him before turning his eyes back on the dusty road. He was more or less sober, for once, and his expression was guarded. “What do you mean, what now?”

“I mean,” Sam said, sounding almost diplomatic, “you tell me you can’t stand being at Bobby's and I can come with you if I want. Fine. I'm with you. What I want to know now is, what are you going to do now? Yellow Eyes is dead. Are you gonna go back to hunting? Or--what?”

It was the most Dean had heard Sam say to John at one time, without shouting, since he’d died. Still, Dean could hear that ever-present icy undercurrent of anger, as if Sam were just waiting for John to say the wrong thing. He still didn’t understand completely why his brother had started talking to John again, or why he’d come.

“I don’t know,” John answered slowly, staring at the flat road ahead of them.

Sam waited for more, rolling his eyes when it didn’t come. “Okay, but you have to have some plan. You always have a _plan_ , right?”

 _Dean is dying, and you’ve got a_ plan.

Dean shooed the memory away.

“I don’t have a plan,” John said quietly. It wasn’t a conciliatory quiet so much as it was the hushed tone of a man on his last straw, and it reminded Dean eerily of his early childhood. John's fingers twitched around the wheel, though whether it was because he wanted to cuff Sam or find something to drink, Dean didn’t know. Probably both. “Do you have a plan, Sam? You’re not going back to school, are you?”

It was Sam’s turn to respond with a lengthy silence. Given his weirdly tormented expression, Dean guessed that he’d been planning to leave all along but was torn between letting him down easy or doing in it a way that would piss him off.

Maybe that was why Sam had left Bobby’s. Wyoming was a little closer to California, and his bus trip back would be just a little shorter. Dean wouldn’t begrudge him the choice, if he made it. Sammy deserved to get something he wanted for once. And riding around the back roads of Wyoming with their dad, or squatting in some cabin with him, had never been on that list.

“I don’t think so,” Sam said after a moment.

Dean’s ghostly eyebrows drew together. John’s went up.

Sam continued, fidgeting with the door handle and not looking at John as he did. “Look. Dad. There’s a part of me that wants to leave this life and never look back. But, Dean… Dean wouldn’t. Because you’re family. He always took care of you, even when he was a kid. And if he could do that, so can I. I can be as good as Dean.”

If Dean had had real eyes he might’ve blinked away tears of his own. He’d no idea Sammy saw him like that. Looking out for their dad had just been what he’d always done. It wasn’t some noble thing like Sam was making it out to be.

But realizing that this was what Sam meant—he was doing it for Dean—just made him sadder. Whatever Sam's reasons, Sam deserved better. He wanted to clap Sam on the shoulder, or even better, pull him into a hug for being a good brother and a good son after all, but he knew from experience his hands would go right through.

“Doin’ me a favor, then?” John said dangerously, not so moved. “Gee, thanks, son.” 

“What?” Sam said, apparently more shocked than Dean at the response. “No. Dad. That’s not what I said.”

Dean waited for him to start tearing into John, but he didn’t. His next comment was muted and seemed to shut Dad up too, at least for the moment.

“Whatever. I still gotta finish the car, and I’m not leaving until I do.”


	5. Chapter 5

The cabin was old, and creaky, and drafty at night. It’d belonged to a friend of a hunter John had helped out once, and the woman had offered it to him for a near to nothing. The kitchen was tiny and half the burners on the stove didn’t work, not that it mattered much. The rug in his room was so threadbare they could see the floor through it. The lights flickered, and he was pretty sure he’d heard something scurrying around. The worst thing about it was how it reminded John of a dozen cabins he and the boys had stayed at over the years. (A memory of a teenage Dean ducking into the pantry of one, coming out with a grin and can of beans that had expired five years before, which he of course promptly offered to Sam, floated through his mind unbidden.) But otherwise, the cabin was quiet, and aside from Sam, there was no one to tell John what he should say or do or feel. It was good enough.

He and Sam hadn’t attempted a heart-to-heart since that time in the truck. Instead, they’d fallen into a routine that had lasted a good two weeks. Each day, Sam woke up at the ass crack of dawn and went out to work on the Impala. John slept a while longer, then paced the tiny cabin. He scanned the news for hunts like he’d done every morning for the last twenty years, then ignored every indication of ghosts and demons and demons he saw. Yellow Eyes was dead. Dean was dead. What did it matter? In any case, he was hardly up for a hunt—he was still limping heavily and though he’d long since abandoned the sling, he couldn't move his shoulder in a full rotation without sweating from the pain. Next he paced some more. That was usually followed by rereading the books he’d brought with him from Bobby’s, every damn tome with a line about resurrection, and throwing them away in frustration as the impossibility of it washed over him again. When he couldn’t stand it anymore, he’d open a plastic jug of shit whiskey and drink as much as he had to to keep from losing his mind. Sam always came in at lunchtime, covered in dirt and oil from a morning under the car, and asked how the leg was, how the shoulder was, if John needed anything. Each time John told him to leave him alone, Sam still sat him down and checked the bullet wound and tried to convince him to eat whatever he’d brought from the kitchen. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. He wouldn’t even take John chucking the plastic bottle at him for an answer.

 _Dean had always taken care of him_.

As wrong as it was, Sam had said it so easily, like it was a fact they all knew. John _had_ known it for a long time. He’d always relied on Dean more than the kid deserved. And Dean had always stepped up without being asked and given John whatever he needed. Ten years old, standing there with his hand on John’s shoulder, telling _him_ it was okay. John hadn’t even thanked him once.

He’d never told Dean he was proud of him.

That was one of the thoughts that sent him into the kitchen to grab a bottle more often than not. Some days, he couldn’t stop it reverberating through him, til it felt like it was hollowing him out from the inside. John wished Sam would go back to sullen silences and snapping at him, because then he could stop thinking about Dean. He wouldn’t be reminded of how he’d failed Dean for so long, and failed him a last time when it really mattered.

He tried to make it happen. Sometimes Sam took the bait, and they’d snipe at each other for a while. Sometimes he didn’t. No matter what John said, though, Sam’s resentment was _always_ palpable. As stubbornly as Sam was insisting on doing it, he didn’t want to play Dean. The kid generally meant well (at least when John was involved) and his sympathetic puppy eyes had been a great asset in getting stories from broken widows when it came to hunting, but caring for people— _really_ caring for people—like that never been Sam’s strength. Not like it had been Dean’s.

In any case, John didn’t deserve it. He was still waiting for the day that Sam’d pick up and leave.

The routine continued. After lunch, Sam went outside again, John tucked into a new bottle of whiskey. If he felt like it, he took it outside and wander the mountainous, wooded landscape that surrounded the cabin for as long as his bum leg would allow. (He’d nearly spent the night out there one time when he’d imbibed a bit more than intended, sat down on a stump, and not gotten up. Sam had found him before dust and dragged him back inside.) Wherever he took the bottle, though, he didn’t stop until darkness took him again.

Today, though, the routine was different. It was pouring rain outside, a torrential flow that had been going strong since early that morning, and that meant Sam was stuck inside. At nine, John was still in the midst of scanning half a dozen papers for cases he’d never follow up on, a cup of coffee at his elbow. Needed something to counteract the hangover.

Sam sat on the rickety chair across from him at the small table, watching him with an expression of mixed concern and irritation. That was Sam’s default these days. Sometimes the concern won out, sometimes the irritation and resentment did.

“Anything good?” Sam asked tightly.

John looked at him over the printed pages. “You really want to know?”

 “Why else would I ask you?” Sam said in a snotty tone. Today was a sniping day, apparently.

“You tell me. Hell, I still don’t know what you’re doing here.”

He watched Sam’s jaw work, and anticipated the fight. Maybe this would be the day Sam left. Stuck in here with John, he’d have no choice but to face up the fact that he wanted to be nowhere near him.

“We need a hunt,” Sam said.

John blinked at him. Then blinked again. “A hunt,” he echoed incredulously.

“Yeah,” Sam said, then his tone softened. John could see him smoothing out the muscles of his face, like he did before he talked to those broken widows. “Look. Dad. We’ve been at each other’s throats for a week. It’s supposed to rain ‘til Thursday, and I don’t think either of us is gonna be able to stand being cooped up in here for that long. We should go out, and find something to kill that deserves it.”

When in doubt, hunt. Another echo of Dean’s philosophy, of course. But whether Sam was Playing Dean, or had picked up some of that in that year he’d spent with his brother, John didn’t know. Or maybe Sam was just trying to give John what John had always turned to in the past. Whatever the case, though, he supposed that maybe the kid was right. As much guilt and anger as he had pent up inside, he _wanted_ to kill something. Hunting might be a little rough with his leg and his shoulder still on the fritz but he’d get through it fine. Better than another day of drinking himself to oblivion with no company but Sam and the trees.

“All right,” John said slowly after a long pause. He glanced down, then slid the page he’d been reading across the table to Sam. “Three unconnected suicides in a town you’d miss passing through if you sneezed. Locals say they saw something transparent moving around the scenes. Good enough for you?”

“Yeah, sure, Dad. That’s fine,” Sam said.

“Fine,” John grunted.

-

It felt odd to leave the table and not go out and work on the Impala. The car was coming along, not as fast as Dean might’ve done it, of course, but Sam was proud of his work. He also hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that, wherever he was, Dean was proud too. Driving away in their dad’s truck, now, Sam wouldn’t shake the feeling that he was leaving Dean behind too.

But for the sake of John’s sanity, and by association his own, they were getting out of the house. His dad had even shaved, startling him when he’d come out of the tiny, drafty bathroom looking less like a crazy mountain man than he had in weeks.

Now they were sitting in the Sierra, the only sound the dull roar of the tires on wet asphalt and the swish-swish of the windshield wipers pushing the heavy rain droplets off the windshield.

Sam stared out into the drenched landscape and reflected that this was the first time he’d ever gone hunting with only his dad. In the four or so years before Stanford that John ad deemed Sam old enough to hunt, it had only been when Dean was there too. And neither of them had ever let him take the difficult, dangerous parts of a job when they could avoid it. Stanford, of course, had been four years off. Then a year with Dean.

It hadn’t taken Dean long to realize that despite his relative inexperience, Sam was capable adult who could hold his own. Sam remembered clearly how Dean’s surprise at Sam’s abilities had shifted quickly to pride, just as Sam’s view of Dean—based largely on the cool big brother image Dean had so cultivated when Sam was young—had shifted. Before long they’d been equals, relying on each other like Sam hadn’t thought possible.

He missed Dean.

He wondered if John would ever see him as an equal.

“We’ll start with the first suicide,” John said, squinting out into the rain and mist rolling off the other cars on the road. “I’ll check out the scene. You’ll talk to the family, find out more about this spirit they claim they saw. And just how likely it was this kid really offed herself.”

Or maybe not.

He tried to shove down his rising frustration before he remembered—the thought shoving its way to the forefront of his mind, as it did at least once a day— _Dad let Dean die. And he missed it._ Why try to push down the frustration at all? He resettled himself in the seat and reminded himself also that they still had the hunt ahead of them. He didn’t _want_ to hate his dad. As complex as their relationship had always been, even when they hadn’t been talking, he’d never wanted to hate him. In any case, they had to settle into a groove and find a way to exist, together, without Dean.

He sighed slightly, and wished he were back under the Impala, where Dean’s presence surrounded him in the familiar sounds and smells of the engine, and that much farther from a reality he didn’t want to face. That Dean was dead and it was possible that he and John would never find common ground. Sam didn’t want to leave (at this point, if only because leaving in itself seemed like admitting defeat somehow), but he couldn’t deny that each day brought him that much closer to giving up altogether.

John turned on the radio without looking at Sam, then skipped from station to station, frowning slightly as he passed by each one. When he’d made two rotations and apparently found nothing to his liking, he grunted and shut it off.   

The sound of tires against wet asphalt filled the cabin again, and Sam suppressed a sigh. The truth was, he didn’t even know if John wanted him to stay. As much as he told himself that he was doing the right thing, that he was doing what Dean would have wanted—sticking around, trying to make sure Dad was okay—John’s sullen silences, mixed with bouts of argumentative sniping, made him have doubts even on the best of days. Even if the hunt did well, what then? It was hard to imagine staying by John’s side forever. He’d never wanted _that_.

Finding the renewed silence unbearable, Sam reached out and turned the radio back on, tuning it to the classic rock station.  John shot him a glare but didn’t comment, and they drove on.

He’d see, Sam decided. He’d see how this hunt went.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains some descriptions of suicide and suicidal ideation.
> 
> After this, one (maybe two) chapters to go! Kudos and comments are always always always appreciated.

If Dean had thought being a ghost when people were around was lonely, he couldn’t have imagined being a ghost in the empty lot of a cabin in the exact middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere. Hell, three days into his solo haunting experience and he totally got why all the spirits they’d hunted over the years had been crazy sonsabitches. Forget hanging onto the mortal plane, or whatever Tessa had said. It was the solitude that was driving him nuts. If he’d thought watching Sam and his dad grieve over him had been hard, being alone with his own thoughts was a thousand times harder.

His dad had salted all the doors and windows of the cabin, which meant Dean couldn’t even go inside. Instead, he alternated between sitting in the Impala (it was still a bit rough in the inside, and it was covered by a tarp, but the cabin was at least cabin-shaped again), outside of the Impala, or wandering around the grounds and practicing picking up rocks and branches and moving them. He was getting better. He’d actually managed to pick one rock up long enough to throw it at the side of the cabin in a fit of bored frustration.

Still, Dean could’ve cried in happiness when he heard the rumble of the Sierra’s engine and the crunch of tires on gravel as it rolled up the winding road that led to the cabin. John and Sam’s voices drifted toward him as they pulled up and got out of the car, both of them slamming their doors shut a little too forcefully.

 “So, what, since it was a bust you’re just going to go back to drinking yourself into a coma every day?”

Despite the pure venom in Sam’s tone, it was the most beautiful sound Dean had ever heard. He drifted between them as they both stalked back toward the cabin, just taking in their voices and their presence. His family was back. Screwed up as ever, but they were back.

“How I spend my days is none of your damn business,” John snapped. They went in, the bottom of the door brushing aside enough salt that Dean could glide in behind them. When they halted in the musty living room, standing barely two feet apart like they were going to start pounding on each other right there, Dean folded his arms and moved back to watch.

“Yeah, it is, Dad,” Sam said, glaring down at him. “As long as I’m here, what you do _is_ my business. ‘Cause I have deal with it.”

“You don’t have to deal with a damn thing,’” John snarled. “You don’t want to be here, _go_.”

The melodious sounds of not being alone anymore were quickly turning into the kind of argument that always made Dean clench up inside. This was what had led up to Sam leaving for Stanford, for the four years he hadn’t even seen his little brother once.

He didn’t want to think about what would happen if Sam and Dad parted ways now. Sam was invested in fixing up Baby _now_ , but if he went back to school or wherever who knew what would happen to her. And Dad had made it pretty clear he didn’t want the car around. That he didn’t want any more memories of Dean around. Alive, Dean had always been sure that no matter how gruff or demanding John was, that his father loved him. Now? It was getting harder to hold onto that belief. He still loved his dad, as much as a dead guy could, but he’d seen precious little, aside from the tempers and drinking that always came when the going got tough, to tell him that John felt the same. Dean forced himself to focus on the argument, and not the gaping disappointment in how that had turned out.

“Maybe I will go,” Sam said. “You don’t want me here, fine. We never got along without Dean, and Dean’s gone and he’s not coming back. And it’s _your fault_. You could have tried anything to save him but you didn’t. So, yeah, Dad, maybe I’ll leave. I’ll go back to school and leave you to drink yourself to death. Maybe that’d be better for both of us.”

For several long seconds, John didn’t say anything. Dean stared at him, tenser than it was really right for a ghost to be, and wished he could see into his mind.

 “Maybe you’re right,” John said finally.

Dean felt his ghostly shoulders relax, slightly.

Sam stared at John. His voice still had a shrill edge to it. “What?”

 “You were right,” John said again. “It was my fault. I tried…”

He took a long shaky breath, and Dean studied his face. Dad had gone to hunt the demon. What could he possibly have tried?  

John swallowed thickly and took a step back. “Forget it, Sam.”

 “You didn’t try anything, Dad,” Sam said frustratedly. Sam sounded angry, and hurt, and hearing those tones in his voice cut into what was left of Dean’s soul just like they always had. “I was there. You just…summoned the demon and killed him. And Dean died. You said you’d find a way to save him and all you did was kill the damn demon. So yeah. It is your fault. And I’m tired of it, and I’m tired of you sitting around all day acting like you got the worst deal, like the world owes you something. You _weren’t even there_.”

John’s mouth formed a thin line, and he didn’t say anything for a few long seconds. “Then leave, Sam. Stop whatever you been doing, and go.”

Sam’s expression mirrored John’s nearly perfectly. It always struck Dean, at moments like this, just how alike the two really were.

“I still gotta finish the car,” Sam said in a low, tight voice.

“Go on, then,” John growled. “Finish it.”

And Sam headed right back outside. Dean followed him, after a last long glance at John, who looked more haggard than he’d ever seen him. That was what didn’t really make sense. If John couldn’t care enough about Dean dying to do something, why was he so broken up about it now? And what had he tried? Dean decided it didn’t matter.

Sam grabbed the toolbox from by the side of the cabin and set them down by the car, then practically ripped off the canvas he’d left on it to protect it from the rain. Droplets of water sprayed in all directions, and would have left Dean soaking if he hadn’t been so incorporeal. Sam tossed the canvas aside angrily, jaw working.

“Whoa, Sammy,” Dean muttered, crouching down beside him as Sam started jacking up the front car, pumping the jack like it had wronged him personally.

Sam glanced up for a second, as if maybe he’d heard, before resuming his pumping. When the tires were a foot or so off the ground, he propped the frame up, then sat back on his heels and let out a long breath.

“Dean,” he said, and for a long second Dean was sure Sam could finally see him.

“Sam?”

He reached out to touch his arm but his hand went right through.

“Dean, I know you can’t hear me,” Sam said, his voice choked. He bowed his head. “I know that, but I feel like you can. I don’t care how crazy that sounds.”

“I _can_ hear you, Sammy,” Dean said, feeling slightly like he’d just been kicked in the gut.

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closing, then lifted his head, blinking away tears. “I can’t do this, Dean. I can’t deal with Dad like you could.”

“Yes you can, Sam,” Dean said, as if saying his name a third time would make Sam pick up his head. He didn’t want Sam to leave. All he had left— _literally_ , all he had left—was his family. No matter how many doubts he had about what his dad had or hadn’t done for him.

“He’s driving me crazy,” Sam said. He got onto his back and shimmied under the car. Dean followed him, noting that there really wasn’t much to do before the engine was good to go. Sammy had done well over the past few weeks.

“We went to check out these suicides,” Sam said. “First, all he did was order me around. I know he’s got years on me. Just like you did, Dean. But you never treated me like that. Like I’m some stupid child.”

“He doesn’t mean anything by it, Sam,” Dean murmured. Sam had never listened to him about this when he was alive. He didn’t have much hope for it now.

“And the way he’s been acting? Like he’s the only one who’s torn up about this? I’m trying to be patient with him, Dean, I really am. I thought getting him on a hunt would help, I mean, that’s the only thing I know he likes to do. But the second we found out it wasn’t a hunt…”

He paused to fit the torque wrench around a bolt on the crushed radiator, breathing heavily through his nose.

“He keeps drinking,” Sam went on as he clicked the torque wrench into place. “Every day. It’s worse than when we were kids.”

“I know, Sammy,” Dean said. Though he hadn’t followed his dad much since Sam had taken to spending every day under the Impala, he knew what John had been up to.

Sam, of course, didn’t reply, rotating the wrench until the bolt came loose, then sticking it in his pocket for safekeeping before moving onto the next one. “I don’t know how you did it, Dean. Dealing with Dad like you did. I was wrong for thinking you were a mindless soldier. Hell, you were a _saint_.”

“Sam…” Dean tried again. A leaden feeling had settled in his gut again, for he had a feeling he knew where this was headed.

“He wasn’t even there when you died,” Sam went on. “Bastard was _hunting_.” This was far from the first time Dean had heard him say it, but this time, he felt a flash of doubt. Dad said he’d tried something. And it was clear that John was grieving more than the loss of a good soldier. Maybe his dad did care after all. Azazel’s voice drifted through his head again, promising him it wasn’t true.

“I miss you, man,” Sam said suddenly, pausing there with the wrench on the bolt. “I told you in the hospital. Me and Dad, we just can’t do this without you. But you’re not coming back. I know that. You’re gone. I want to think you’re here, I want to think I can feel you…. but really… I’m talking to you ‘cause…’cause I got no one else, and I know, Dean...this is it.” His swallowed hard, clearly fighting for composure.

Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. He’d never wanted anything more than to be able to reach out and comfort his little brother. To do anything to take away the pain on his face and in his voice. “Sammy…” He rested a hand on Sam’s arm.

Sam started at the touch and for a moment Dean’s heart leapt and he thought maybe he’d broken through. But Sam only looked right through him, took a deep breath, and started turning the wrench again.

“I want to leave, Dean,” Sam said. “I don’t care what it’s doing to do to Dad. To the family. Maybe it’s not what _you_ would have wanted. But I…I just can’t do this anymore.”

Dean nodded, though he knew Sam couldn’t see him. It wasn’t surprising, but it came as another kick to the gut. This whole haunting thing sucked bad enough when he was with his family. If Sam took the car, that would mean he might never see his dad again. But if Sam left it behind…

Either way, it meant that Dean would have to watch his family—the family he’d fought so hard to keep together, for so many damn years—fall apart.

“You’re right, Sam,” he said. “That’s not what I want.”

But Sam had gone back to extracting the busted radiator, and he wasn’t listening.

-

John had a bottle in front of him, but he wasn’t drinking it. He sat at the kitchen table, one elbow resting on its warped surface, his head in his hand.  Sam’s words still rang in his ears. He’d come so close to telling Sam what had really happened, but something had stopped him. It wasn’t fear, anymore. Sam’s opinion of him was obviously as low as it could be—whether Sam knew the truth or not, there was no coming back. _That_ was what had stopped him: the realization that even if Sam were to know, it wouldn’t matter.

Sam was right. Dean was dead, and it was all his fault. It wasn’t just that he’d failed to make a deal with Azazel for his son’s life. As much as he could have seen that coming, that was just the tip of the iceberg. No, Dean was dead because John had forced him into this life, made him a soldier, and put him to war. As obvious as it had seemed, back then, that he was doing it to protect his boys, it was as obvious now that he’d failed monumentally. Dean’s death _had_ been on him, and he hadn’t even been there.

Two of the suicides they’d investigated had been high school kids. One had slit her wrists, and the other, her boyfriend, had followed suit. Very Romeo and Juliet, tragic but not supernatural in the slightest. The third had been a disgruntled orthodontist who had apparently lost sight of the point of living, and decided that the world would be better off without him.  

Personally, under the weight of the loss and the knowledge of what he’d done to Dean and Sam’s bottomless anger, John was beginning to find it hard to see the point himself. And he was growing more and more certain that Sam, at least, would be better off without him.

He couldn’t rectify what he’d done to Dean. Some things, there was no making right. But if there was a chance he could still do right by his younger son, it seemed as clear as anything ever had that he had to take it. Sam had always wanted to be free of him. Now that Dean was gone, the kid seemed to feel more tethered to him than he’d ever been. Even if Sam did go like he’d been threatening, John would still be behind him. A specter of obligation looming over his shoulder. John had been the reason Sam had given up on his plans and left Stanford, after all. Only right thing to do would be to set him free.

He reached out and unscrewed the bottle (bottom shelf bourbon that smelled like it could strip paint), and took a swig. The bourbon burned its way down with the usual promise that it would take the edge off the pain and the dark thoughts that consumed him more days than not. As he drank his way to a stupor, however, a new thought swirled in his mind like it couldn’t find the right way up. _He’d set Sam free…one way or another._  


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a quick update for y'all. Enjoy!

The car wasn’t starting. Sam was sure he had everything in place. He’d checked the manual about a thousand times, skimmed two dozen classic car blogs, and double-checked everything he’d done the last two days. It was beyond frustrating. He was leaning over it now, muttering to Dean.

“I know I put the carburetor in right.”

He’d spent a lot of time talking to Dean over the past two days, since he’d come out here after the hunt and spilled all grief and frustration. He couldn’t shake the feeling that when he said Dean’s name, Dean could hear him. He even thought he’d felt a feather-light touch on his arm or his shoulder a couple of times, always accompanied by a feeling of inexplicable warmth, and he had to remind himself that that was impossible. That was the whole point of a hunter’s funeral, wasn’t it? No matter how much he wanted it to be true, it just couldn’t be.

He kept talking to Dean though, because he sure as hell wasn’t talking to his dad. After their last fight, Sam’s frustration had borne out over his concern for the man, and he hadn’t said two words to him since. He didn’t think he could. Not without venting every single bit of anger he’d kept stored up the last month while he’d tried to process Dean’s death and everything his dad had and hadn’t done while keeping just enough composure to do what he had to do—whether that meant being a good houseguest at Bobby’s or taking care of his dad. Whatever patience had kept him going this far, though, was worn far too thin. He was done. He had to get out of here.

But the damn car wasn’t starting, and the sun was already beginning to disappear behind the mountains. He crouched down and grabbed the owner’s manual from where he’d left it by the wheel, thumbing through it. “You’d know where I went wrong,” he told Dean. “You’d be laughing at me right now, wouldn’t you?”

He climbed to his feet then leaned over the top of the engine, hand raised over a spark plug to check it—when entirely of its own accord, the spark plug jerked out, twisted in midair, and settled itself firmly back into the cylinder.

Sam stared, mouth open. _It can’t be_ , he reminded himself. _Can’t be_. That didn’t stop him from asking softly, “Dean?”

There was no answer. Sam took a deep breath, then pulled open the driver’s side door and slid into the seat, legs hanging out. This time, when he turned the key in the ignition, the engine rumbled to life.

“Dean?” he said again, heart thumping in his chest. It had to be. There was no other explanation.

But if Dean was still around, he wasn’t strong enough to answer. Sam leaned back against the frame of the car, feeling like his whole world had tilted sideways. _Something_ had moved that spark plug. That meant Dean was here. Had been all along? If Dean were haunting the car, it would explain why Sam had felt his presence so many times while under the Impala. It would explain so much. Really, it was the _only_ thing that made sense.

Then, two thoughts occurred to him simultaneously that left him feeling mildly sick to his stomach. One was that he had to tell John. The other was that he couldn’t.

His dad would want to know that Dean was still around, as a ghost. Or so Sam thought, anyway. On the other hand… grieving or no, John’s stance on ghosts had always been plain. Making sure Dean didn’t come back _had_ been the point of the hunter’s funeral after all. No doubt, John would start talking about how all spirits turned in the end, and it would be best to just put Dean out of his misery, for good, before it was too late. And that would be the end of Dean, the end of the Impala, and the end of Sam’s freedom.

The anger that was always so near the surface burned to the fore again. He sure as hell wasn’t going to let Dad destroy what was left of his brother. And he wasn’t going to stay. Maybe, if his dad had done something to try to keep Dean from dying, if he’d even been there, Sam would have felt a little bad. But, he reminded himself, the fury clenching his fist around the keys so hard they dug painfully into his palm, Dad had been _hunting_. Dad didn’t deserve to know that Dean was still here. At least, not until Sam could put some distance between them.

Once he got away, he could put more effort into contacting Dean. Hold a séance. Whatever he had to do. His brother was there and he wasn’t going to let anything else happen to him.

Decided, he took a deep breath and strode back into the cabin. He found John where he usually found John at dinnertime, stretched out on the moth-eaten couch in the living room, one hand draped loosely around a bottle. For a moment, Sam was struck by how terrible he looked—his dad looked pale and clammy under half a week’s growth of beard, with dark circles ringing his eyes. And he’d lost a concerning amount of weight.

But Sam pushed those thoughts, and the attendant guilt, out of his mind. He had something far more important to worry about now.

John looked up blearily as Sam entered.

“I’m leaving,” Sam said abruptly.

John blinked up at him blearily. “You’re leaving,” he echoed. After two days of radio silence, he didn’t sound particularly surprised.

 “Yeah,” Sam said curtly. He licked his lips, feeling inordinately nervous. For all the times he’d imagined this moment over the past few weeks, it hadn’t gone like this. The first time he’d left hadn’t gone like this either. He’d expected shouting. A fight. Some effort to try to stop him from going. “Look. Dad. I got the Impala running. I’m going to California.”

“Tonight?” John asked.

“Yeah. Tonight. So…uh, yeah. I guess I’ll see you, then. I’ve just got to grab my stuff, then I’ll…I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah,” John grunted. He made a move as if to stand, then changed his mind and sat back against the couch, his expression dark.

Sam nodded, then strode past him and to his room, where he already had a duffel packed. He slung it over his shoulder, heart pounding again. He felt, vaguely, like he was walking in a dream.

“Hey,” John said abruptly, as Sam emerged into the living room again. He’d stood up, and was facing Sam with his arms folded over his chest. Sam swung around, wondering, absurdly, if John had somehow found him out.

Sam raised his eyebrows, not quite trusting himself to speak.

John hesitated. He had dropped his arms and he an awkward, jerky movement toward Sam, before seeming to think better of it and wobbling slightly. “…Take care, Sam,” he said after a long moment.

Was the fight coming? Sam waited, but that seemed to be all there was. If anything John sounded…defeated. It wasn’t something Sam wanted to dwell on. The anger flashed to the surface again, and he told himself he didn’t care. He was getting away. With Dean. It was no more than his dad deserved.

“You too,” Sam said curtly, then spun on his heel and walked out. It occurred to him, as he strode down the driveway through the cool dusk air, that the jerky, awkward motion had been his dad had been moving in for a hug.

He didn’t turn back. Dad had made his choice when he’d chosen hunting over Dean. Sam was just trying to make sure he didn’t do that again.

So he threw his duffel in the trunk of the Impala, slammed it closed, and got in. He still had a bit of detailing to do inside, but for a moment he just sat there and breathed in the familiar leather smell and thought about Dean. A week ago, doing so had brought insistent tears to his eyes. Today, it brought a strange mix of exhilaration and fear and anticipation. Dean was with him. And he was going to make damn sure it stayed that way.

He drove west with little thought to where, exactly, he was going. Once he found a motel to stop at he could get things sorted out. The first step, of course, being to get Dean so he could talk to him. He was pretty sure there was a book in the trunk with the ritual for a séance. If that didn’t work…well, going to Bobby would be an option. But he’d have to see. It would all depend on what happened with Dean, and what Dean wanted. As he drove, his thoughts were dominated by a single desire: get away, talk to Dean. Everything else was details.

As the ride wore on, though, and his adrenaline receded ever so slightly, Sam found himself thinking about John, and the fact that he would have to tell him him, eventually, that Dean was still around. For all that his dad had totally failed Dean when it mattered, he was still Dean’s father too, and he deserved to know. But how would he take the news that Sam had fled as soon as he found out? He told himself again that it didn’t matter, but the undercurrent of guilt that had taken up residence in his gut seemed determined to stay.

He turned on the radio in an attempt to distract himself from his thoughts. An oldies station was playing James Taylor, and he let the soothing sounds drift over him as he stared out into the gloom sinking down over the empty Wyoming road— _I’ve seen lonely times when I could not find a friend, but I always thought—_

_“Seriously, dude?”_

Sam jumped and nearly crashed the car. For, out of the Impala’s speakers, cutting right through the James Taylor, was Dean’s voice.

“D-Dean?” he asked, heart in his throat again.

“ _Yeah, who’d you think?”_ the radio said. “ _Come on, Sammy. Really._ ”

“I—Dean—it’s—uh—great,” Sam babbled, finding himself totally lost for words, which was stupid. He’d known Dean was here. He supposed that he should have thought of _something to say_. “Where are you? Are you in the car?”

“ _I’m sitting right next to you_ ,” Dean said, his voice rough with static. “ _Still can’t see me, huh?_ ”

Sam shook his head wordlessly.

“ _All right, then, Sammy_ ,” Dean said. “ _Mind telling me where the hell we’re going?_ ”

“Um. Away,” Sam said. Hearing Dean’s voice again made him want to cry in happiness, and in grief. For as real as it was—Dean was still dead. And somehow, it hadn’t occurred to him until just now that having Dean back as a ghost might be more painful than never getting him back at all.

“ _Away. Of course_ ,” Dean said, his voice tinged with sarcasm. “ _Away from what_?”

“Away from Dad,” Sam said. He felt so many things, so many emotions swirling through him, that he was numb. Like mixing too many colors of paint and getting a brownish smudge. “He wouldn’t understand, Dean. You’re a ghost. What if he tried to hunt you? I mean. That’s what he was doing. When you died.”

 

 

“ _Yeah. Sam. I know_ ,” Dean said. “ _That’s only the four thousandth time you’ve said that. You can’t just leave Dad._ ”

“Yeah, well, if you’ve been here then you know exactly why I’m leaving,” Sam said. The words came out far more defensively than he’d intended. “I tried. I really did. My god, Dean…” he broke off, a lump forming in his throat. This was unreal.

“ _Sam_ ,” Dean said softly, and Sam recognized the tone that Dean had always used to comfort him, ever since they’d been kids. He gripped the steering wheel tighter as he swallowed back a new upswell of tears. He wasn’t going to start crying in front of Dean. Which was stupid because of course he already had.

“ _Look_ ,” Dean said. “ _I know this has been tough on you. I get it. Hell, I don’t know what to make of Dad anymore. But he’s still family._ ”

Sam shook his head jerkily, a part of him angry at Dean for even acknowledging how hard it had been when of course Dean had had the toughest deal of all.

“ _I’m worried about him, Sam_ ,” Dean said.

“Dean, I tried,” Sam said again, a little desperately. Of all the ways he’d imagined _this_ going, this hadn’t been one of them. But then, of course Dean’s main concern was keeping the family together. Even after he was dead, even after what John had done, that was all he cared about.

Then, without warning, the Impala slowed to a halt, the brakes screeching as it turned off to the shoulder. Sam gripped the wheel, gasping for breath and staring at the road ahead of him.

When he finally unclenched enough to glance around the cabin, he jumped again.

Dean was sitting in the passenger seat. Slightly translucent in the moonlight, clothed in the hospital scrubs he’d died in, but smirking and a hundred percent Dean. When he spoke, his voice still came out of the Impala’s speakers.

“Heya, Sammy,” he said. “You did good fixing my Baby. But now it’s my turn to drive.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: more suicidal themes this chapter.

CHAPTER 8

Dean sped back toward the cabin, working the Impala without giving it a second thought. Though Sam still sat in the passengers’ seat, one hand resting on the wheel and glancing over at him occasionally, Dean was driving.

An odd silence had filled the cabin for the first few minutes. Dean knew Sam was glad to have him back. But he also knew Sam was resenting the hell out of being told what to do not an hour and a half after declaring his freedom.

“Dad hasn’t been himself,” Dean explained uncomfortably, feeling a need to justify himself. “These last couple days, man, he just shut down. I know you haven’t been talking to him, but you must’ve seen it.”

“I didn’t,” Sam said shortly. “Dean, he’s been drinking like that every day. He barely talked to me at all the whole first week after, you know. This isn’t unusual.”

Dean sighed, or would have sighed if he’d had actual lungs. “I just got a real bad feeling about this, Sammy.”  

“And I’ve got a bad feeling about telling him you’re here,” Sam said. “Dean, what if Dad wants to hunt you?”

“He won’t,” Dean said, trying to sound a bit surer than he felt.

Sam scoffed. “Wouldn’t be the first time he chose hunting over you.”

“He said he tried something,” Dean pointed out, trying and not quite succeeding to stave off the crushing disappointment that usually came with thinking about what his dad had been doing when he’d died. “So it didn’t work. Doesn’t mean he’s going to try to off me.”

“He didn’t try anything,” Sam said. “He summoned the demon to kill it.”

Dean pressed his lips together. He wanted to say that he knew their dad better than anyone. Way better than Sam ever had. And that no matter how much he doubted how much John really cared for him, he had no doubt that there was something going on with his dad…something that absolutely terrified him. He’d never before seen John so defeated, or so hopeless, or so alone. And he’d never actually been afraid for him before. Not like this.

“Just humor me, man,” Dean said.

Sam’s jaw clenched, and unclenched, but he nodded. “I trust you, Dean.”

Dean gave him half a smile. “Even better.”

The Impala sped on.

-

John sat at the table of in the tiny cabin kitchen. His elbows were on the table and he was staring at the picture of him and the boys that he always kept with him, on him, these days. His bad shoulder burned from the position but he didn’t care. The bottle he’d been drinking out of when Sam had left, sat on the table beside his left elbow.

Beside his right elbow sat his M1911 Colt .45.

He was thinking. Hard.

If he did it, he’d have to let someone know beforehand. The hunter he was renting the cabin from had said no one would be back to bother him for a good six months. John didn’t much like the idea of her having to come back and find his half-decayed corpse as a surprise. Worse, there was always the chance that Sam would come back to check on him if he wasn’t answering his phone, and he sure as hell didn’t want his kid walking in on that. Of course, that presumed Sam was going to call in the first place. John took another drink from the bottle.

Unfortunately, letting someone know would mean making a call, and there was no one he much wanted to talk to at the moment. He vaguely remembered Bobby having a phone he only checked once a week, his other other _other_ cell. If he left a message on that, then Bobby could come to collect him. Spare Sam the horror.

If Sam even came.

He took another drink and gazed at the picture, at Dean’s smiling little face. As if in fast motion, he could see Dean in his mind’s eye as a baby, as a toddler, a boy, a teen, and finally the strong, loyal, caring man he’d become. John had been so proud of him. So damn proud. But Dean would never know. Dean was gone. John had spent the last month trying to get used to that, and he'd come to realize he never would. When he closed his eyes, he could still see the body of his own child lying on the hospital bed where he'd coded, could remember how stiff Dean had been when John and Sam had rolled him in the sheet for the funeral pyre, could still picture the flickering embers on the funeral pyre. He could still smell it. He shuddered, nausea climbing up into his throat. It was his fault. It was all his fault.

He picked up the gun and stared at it. He should call Bobby. Had to let someone know so Sam didn’t come back and find him.

Except Sam was gone too. His eyes slid to the smaller boy in the picture, taking in Sam’s scrunched up face, remembering how little he’d wanted to be on John’s knee that afternoon. In the end, he’d failed Sam too. It was time to make it right. Time to finally set Sam free.

He set the gun down and picked up his phone, scrolling mechanically through his contacts until he found the number. He pressed the little green _call_ button and held the phone to his ear as it rang, and rang, and rang, hoping to hell Bobby didn’t pick up.

“ _If you’re calling_ this _phone, you already know the drill_.”

“Bobby.” John’s voice was hoarse and he realized there were unshed tears there. Hell, he hadn’t cried yet. Never would again. He cleared his throat. “Sam left. You just make sure he’s not the one who finds me. And…uh… truck’s yours.”

He thumbed the phone off, and picked up the .45 again, admiring it. Opened his mouth, put the barrel inside, and closed his eyes, finger sliding over the trigger. Then he set the gun down with a thump on the table.

One more thing he had to do first.

He cleared his throat again, and spoke to the smiling face in the faded photo.

“I’m sorry.”

Dean kept smiling back at him. John felt a burning beneath his eyes and took a shaky breath. He wasn’t going to cry now. Too damn late for that.

“You too, Sam,” John added, ghosting his thumb over the image of Sam’s scowling face. “I’m sorry.”

He took a deep shaky breath, willing himself to say what he had to say so he could just get it over with, and stared more intently at the faded photo. Trying to imagine himself back there, again, with both of his boys. The cool autumn wind sweeping across the plains…Bobby telling them all to smile for the camera, though only Dean would…the weight of Sam on his knee and Dean’s solid presence beside him…all the promise of a life ahead of them.

“Dean,” he managed, finally, his voice slow and rough. But the words came faster as he spoke. “I shouldn’t’ve raised you into this life. Shouldn’t have relied on you so damn, much. I’d come home wrecked from a hunt and you’d put your hand on _my_ shoulder, told _me_ it was okay. I shoulda been telling you that. You were a child, and I always…” he broke off, cleared his throat, and tried again. “I put too much on your shoulders, Dean. Made you grow up too fast. You took care of me and you took care of Sammy.  You did that, and you didn’t complain, not once...” Another shaky breath. “I’m proud of you, Dean. I’m so proud of you.”

The tightness in his chest was back, and he took a second or two to regain his composure before addressing the tiny picture one more time.

“I tried to save you, Dean. I did. I summoned Yellow-Eyes to trade the Colt for your life, but he wouldn’t take the deal. He wouldn’t take any deal. Hell, Dean, I’d have traded my soul. But your brother’s right. It wasn’t enough… and you died because I put my trust in the damn demon. Dean…I’m so sorry.”

He set the picture down, his hand thumping the table with the force, and closed his eyes for a moment. That was it. Then he took the gun without looking and shoved the barrel back in his mouth, feeling the weight of it and tasting the cold metal.

Then he opened his eyes once more, meaning to see his boys’ faces one more time in the photo.

What he hadn’t expected to see was Dean, fully grown, and shouting at him though not a damn sound was coming out.

John dropped the gun back to the table and gaped.

Dean, who seemed to be glowing with an eerie, otherworldly light, had stopped shouting wordlessly. He mouthed the word, “Dad?”

For several seconds, John could only stare back at him.

Then he heard the familiar cough of the Impala’s engine, followed by the crunch of tires on gravel. As the Impala rolled into sight from the cabin’s fogged kitchen window, Dean spoke again, and it was as if someone was turning the volume dial up as he did.

“Dad, please.”

The Impala’s door swung open then slammed shut, and Sam’s lanky form headed back toward the cabin.

John felt trapped in a dream, or a nightmare.

“Dean.”

It was all he could say. All he could think.

Sam burst in through the front door, and stopped short, staring at the gun John still held loosely in one hand. “Oh, God. Dad, Why?”

But John could only keep staring at Dean. The burning in his chest and throat had returned full force and he realized he was one hairs breadth from breaking down entirely. Dean was back, and Dean had saved him. He felt someone pulling the gun from his hand and he realized it was Sam.

“He tried to save me, Sam,” Dean said, sounding a little shell-shocked himself.

“What?” Sam snapped, holding the M1911 loosely like it might bite him.

“He was talking,” Dean went on, when it became clear that John wasn’t going to answer himself. “We were too far away for me to show. He didn’t summon the demon to kill him, Sammy. He was gonna sell the Colt, or sell his soul. Yellow-Eyes said no.”

It was Sam’s turn to gape at John.

“You heard me,” John said to Dean, his voice choked with unshed tears.

“Yeah,” Dean said, an expression that was almost a smile passing across his pale face. “You’re proud of me, Dad.”

And with that, John’s last bit of resolve fled completely. His face crumpled and he dropped his head into his hands, and sobbed.

A hand rested on his good shoulder, and gripped it lightly, but Dean was still standing on the other side of the table, arms folded, features tight with sympathy. That meant Sam had come to him. Had come _back_ to him.

“I’m sorry,” John said between sobs, not sure if he was apologizing for breaking down or for being an ass or for failing to save Dean when he’d had the chance or for everything in their lives that had led up to this moment.

And Sam, his hand still squeezing John’s shoulder said, “It’s okay, Dad.”


	9. Chapter 9

It took a while for John to regain his composure enough for them all to sit down around the tiny kitchen table and all explain some things. Once his dad’s breath wasn’t hitching anymore, and he had his hands wrapped around a cup of coffee Sam had made, Dean told them all that had happened since he’d died: how he’d decided to cling to the moral plane despite Tessa’s warnings, how he’d found his way into the Impala when they burned his body, and how he’d spent the next month watching helplessly as they fought and struggled to keep things together in his absence.

When Dean was done, Sam spoke about how he’d felt Dean’s presence but doubted himself, then left out of frustration and fear for Dean.

“I wanted to tell you, son,” John said to Sam, when his turn had come. He shifted his hands on the coffee mug, as if he were still finding the words hard to say. “What I did.”

Sam swallowed, his jaw twitching a moment. “You should have.”

John’s breath hitched again. “I know.” There was a long pause where Dean wondered if maybe he should butt in and say something too. But something told him—a voice in his head that he’d managed to ignore until now—that maybe this wasn’t his role anymore. He’d managed to pull Sam and John together one more time, but sitting beside them, incorporeal and silent, he couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe it was the last time. That maybe it should've been.

“Why didn’t you?” Sam said finally.

“I couldn’t,” John said plainly. His next words were hesitant, though, as if he were trying each one out in his mind before he said it. “Sam, I thought the demon could help me. I was wrong, and that made it my fault. I could take you hating me ‘cause you thought I hadn’t tried—but I couldn’t take you hating me knowing I had.”

Sam’s jaw twitched again, and Dean watched him carefully, unsure how this was going to play out, and wondering if maybe he did still have a role here after all.

“Obviously you couldn’t take it either way,” Sam said, his voice tight. “Dad. Why didn’t you say something. Before I left. I mean. I was pissed, but I never wanted…” he broke off, pressing his lips together, a mix of frustration and sympathy etched into his face.

John’s stony expression flickered, and Dean could see another hint of the anguish he’d been privy to not an hour before push its way to the surface. “It wasn't about what you wanted, Sam,” he said after a moment. "It was about what I wanted."

Sam gave him a shuttered look of confusion. “What?”

“The best for you,” John said simply. Dean looked back and forth between Sam and John, realizing that he’d never seem them talk to each other like this before. No orders, no sniping, no yelling, no passively aggressive statements that would have the other fuming for hours later. They were just…talking. “I wanted you to be free. To have the life you always tried to have.”

“Dad,” Sam said in a shaky tone. “I couldn't have ever... not like that. Even if it was what I still wanted.” Sam glanced at Dean. “Honestly, this past year…I finally got it. All that stuff about family, about sticking together, when I was with Dean I _got_ it. And I thought I could be like him and stay with you but it just kept going wrong.  I didn’t think you wanted _me_ around anymore.”

For a moment John was silent, and Dean thought about the last few weeks. How many times John had picked a fight or told Sam to screw off or thrown something at him when he wouldn’t.

“You’re my son, Sam,” John said. He’d been staring at the table but he met Sam’s gaze. “Of course I want you here. Of course I do.”

Sam blinked a couple times, but didn’t say anything.

The silence stretched out.

“So,” Dean said, when it had gone on about thirty seconds longer than he'd ever been comfortable with. “What now?”

John gave Dean a searching stare. “How long are you going to be with us?”

Sam answered before Dean could. “He’s not going anywhere, Dad. We just got him back.”

John addressed Dean, his voice low and rough, but not enough so to hide the tremor in it. He also sounded, to Dean’s practiced ears, utterly exhausted. “You know what I mean. Spirits clinging to this plane…they turn. Every single time.”

“Yeah, but it might take a while,” Sam argued. “It could take months. Longer. You’re not saying we should…”

Dean glanced between them, eyebrows rising, and tried to force a little joviality into his tone. “Uh, guys. Don’t you think I should get a say?”

Both John and Sam turned to stare at him, but neither said _yes_.

“Look,” Dean said, finding it hard to put the feeling into words. He’d barely acknowledged it himself, barely even allowed himself to consider it until he’d and watched the two of them have an honest to god civil conversation. “I know this isn’t forever. I know that. Turns out the reaper’s offer did come with a warning label.” He shot a warning look at Sam, who had opened his mouth to argue. “When I told Tessa I’d stay, I only did it ‘cause I couldn’t leave the two of you alone. You said it yourself, Sam, in the hospital—without me you two would kill each other. I didn’t think you two could handle it, being on your own. And I tried damn hard to show up before you got to the point you did.”

Both Sam and John had the grace to wince and look slightly ashamed.

 “What are you saying, Dean?” Sam asked hesitantly.

Dean let out a breath he didn’t need, and scrubbed a hand down his face. “I’m saying that if you two can stow your crap, then maybe there is no place for me here. I don’t want to turn evil, Sammy. I don’t want to put either of you through that.”

“No,” Sam said immediately.

“Sam,” John said.

“Can you do it?” Dean cut in, before the conversation could turn in the direction it usually did—shouting. In any case, an odd sort of resolve had hardened in him. As if the way was suddenly clear, and he could say what in life he’d never had the balls to say. “I mean, really, _really_ do it. Dad, you’d have to stop pushing him away, and start treating him like the grown man he is. This last year, he had my back like nobody else ever did, you can trust him. And _Sam_. Dad’s doing the best he can. That’s all he’s ever done. Blaming him for every damn thing is not gonna help anyone. You know whose fault it is I died? The damn _demon’s_.”

Sam and John glanced at each other, then at Dean. Their expressions—ashamed, sad, and just on the verge of trying to fight him—were identical.

“I don’t even really care if you stay together,” Dean added after a second. “Just… be family. Pick up the friggin’ phone every once in a while.”

John nodded.

Sam addressed Dean instead. “If I say yes? You’re gonna go?”

It hadn’t been what he’d planned when he’d turned the Impala around. Hell, it hadn’t even fully occurred to him that this was what he had to do until he’d started saying it. But slowly, Dean nodded too. "Yeah, Sam." Somehow, the way seemed clearer than it had ever been. If Sam and Dad didn't need him here, then there was nothing to keep him. 

“What if I say no?” Sam went on, frustration building in his tone again. “You can’t leave, Dean. Not after—not after we just got you back.”

“I told you, Sam,” Dean said. “I’ve been here all along.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Sam said, his eyes shining.

“I’m sorry,” Dean told him. “It’s gotta happen. And it’s gotta happen while I’m still me. So can you promise me that, or not?”

Wordlessly, Sam nodded. Then he sniffed loudly, and Dean realized with a pang of guilt that he’d made his little brother cry again. Hardly the way he wanted to go out.

“Well…good,” Dean said awkwardly, not quite sure where to go from there. He wasn’t even a hundred percent sure _how_ to go about leaving the mortal coil for good—he sure as hell wasn’t about to let anyone put a torch to his car. (Sam’s car now. Sam had rebuilt her after all.) He’d never liked goodbyes, but if this was the real one…

He watched a single tear roll down Sam’s face.

“Wait,” John said.

Sam’s head snapped to face him. Dean raised his eyebrows.

“You can't stay,” John said. “I know that. But Dean... you can give us one more day."

“Yeah,” Dean decided after a moment, glancing between them again. The urgency that had come over him settled for a moment. “Yeah. Sure. One more day.”

-

Sam had never believed that twenty-four hours could go by so fast. They all stayed up late into the night, just talking. Reminiscing, mostly, about days gone by. The little moments they’d all shared over the years. Some Sam remembered, some he didn’t.

Like how one night, in the months after Mary’s death before he’d even heard of a demon, when Dean wouldn’t talk and Sam cried all the time, John had loaded them both into the backseat of the Impala and just driven away from the motel they’d been staying at in Lawrence because their house was a wreck. No direction, no destination, just an urge to get out and go. The smooth motion of the car and put Sam to sleep, and when John had stopped at a diner and ordered him a piece of pie, Dean had smiled for the first time since the fire. It had been, John told them, the first time he'd truly believed he could do it. That he could raise his two boys without Mary by his side.

Then there was the time that John had been laid up after a hunt and missed Sam’s fifth birthday. Seeing five as big milestone, Dean had wanted him to have a cake, so he’d gone out and spent their emergency money on all the ingredients for cake—except for sugar. He’d made it anyway, and it had tasted so bad it'd made Sam cry. When John came home on crutches, though, he’d been so proud of Dean’s attempt he’d eaten a whole piece and asked for seconds.

And then there were the times Sam did remember. Convincing John to take them to New York City and the whirlwind of sights and shops and museums before Dean’s ill-fated attempt to join the punk scene. The wrestling matches John had taken them to, sitting back and watching Dean and Sam go wild with excitement, all of them feeling like a normal family for once. Three different world’s largest balls of twine. Classic rock concerts that Dean and John loved, and which Sam tolerated (until he’d come to more or less appreciate his father and brother’s taste in music) because they made Dean so damn happy.

And of course there were the hunts—the hunts they were proud of, the hunts they’d realized in retrospect had been less than a great idea, and the hunts that had gone so comically wrong they still made each of them double up with laughter.

Once the sun came up, they went outside. John set up a pyramid of cans and Dean, who had finally gathered enough strength to pick things up, bulls-eyed each of them with his favorite guns, grinning the whole time. (“I missed that,” he’d said after the first few shots. “Too bad ghosts can’t eat bacon burgers.”) Then they went for a drive in the Impala.

Sam drank it all in, trying as hard as he could not to think about the ticking clock, and how they’d never be a family, together, again. He wanted to ask Dean to stay longer, but Dean was adamant. He couldn’t stay, and the longer he tried, the harder it would be to let him go.

Sam was sure that it would never be possible to let him go.

The afternoon crept up on them far quicker than Sam liked, and then passed. They came back to the cabin and gathered around the table again.

“So,” Dean said, after a while. “It’s about that time.”

Sam felt tears in his eyes again. John froze. For a moment, it was as if time—which had been slipping by so quickly for hours—just stopped. The iridescent lights in the cabin bathed everything in a yellow glow, and Sam knew he'd never forget this moment.

Then John nodded.

Sam watching with clenched jaw and took several short breaths before his feelings all bubbled out of him. “Dean, don’t go. Don’t do this. Please. We don’t know when you’re gonna turn, it could be months. Please.”

Dean turned his gaze on Sam, and there was something in it that Sam had never quite seem before. Dean was calm. Dean was at peace.

“I’m sorry, Sammy.”

“Another day,” Sam said, fully aware he was begging but not caring in the slightest. "One more."

Dean shook his head.

“Take care of my car, Sam,” he said, but Sam could barely hear him over the roaring in his ears. “And…take care of Dad. But don’t forget to have a little fun sometimes, okay?”

There were tears filling Sam’s throat and Sam’s vision. He couldn’t talk. So, as sure as he was that he could never do what Dean was asking, he just nodded.

Dean smiled at John. “Dad. Take care of yourself.”

John’s nod looked a lot like Sam’s. Then he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Dean, closing his eyes. Though Dean looked surprised at first, and a flash of concentration passed over his face, John’s arms found a solid body.

“Thanks,” John said, pulling away.

Sam hugged him too, trying to memorize the feeling.

Then Dean stepped back, smiled at them both. And then he was gone.

For a few seconds, Sam stared in shock at the spot where Dean had been. Then the tears that had been choking him started coming in earnest, and he bowed his head, not wanting his dad to see him breaking down. _Take care of Dad,_ Dean had said.

But before long he felt long arms enveloping him. And it was Sam’s turn to sob into his dad’s arms.

Two hours later, they were sitting on the couch together. Neither had said much—after all that had happened, there simply wasn’t much to say. For once, though, Sam was sure he knew exactly how his dad felt.

Their vigil was interrupted suddenly by the door slamming open, rattling on its hinges. Sam and John both started and jumped to their feet, feeling reflexively for weapons that for once weren’t nearby.

But it wasn’t a monster standing in the doorway—it was Bobby, who stood there gaping at the two of them. And it was Bobby who broke their silence.

“What in all hell are you playing at?” he demanded loudly, waving his arms in a violent gesture at both of them. “Hell, John, you can’t leave a message like that then turn off your damn phone! And Sam! Ever heard of picking up when I call? I just drove fourteen hours to get here to pick up your daddy’s corpse. What _gives_ , you two?”

John and Sam exchanged glances, John’s mildly chagrined, Sam’s confused.

“Forgot about my phone,” John said.

“Left it in the car,” Sam said.

Bobby stared at both of them, mouth hanging open. “Well I’d kill both of you if I wasn’t so damn glad to see both of you here.”

They told him, over another pot of coffee, what had happened. Bobby listened with rapt attention, and a sad, “Sorry I missed the kid.” When they had exhausted the tale, Bobby looked seriously between them. “So, what’s the future hold for you now?”

John didn’t answer. Sam studied the warped, grainy tabletop for a moment, because he honestly hadn’t thought about it. And yet somehow, he knew the answer. For all it had seemed a nightmare of a choice two days before, it was the only possible answer now.

“I didn’t really want to go back to school anyway,” Sam told John, with half a smile. “So, I’ll stay with you. If you’ll have me.”

John snorted softly. “Yeah, Sam. Of course.”

Sam didn't answer, because he was finding it hard to speak again.

Bobby let out a breath of relief. “Well, you’re both welcome to stay with me again, if you’d like.” His tone was hopeful and Sam realized he was looking at John. “Seems like y'all’ve had enough isolation up here for a lifetime or three.”

Sam met his dad’s eyes, and after a moment, they both dipped their heads in agreement.

“Great,” Bobby says. “I’ll help you get packed up.”

“Thanks,” John said.

“Thanks,” Sam echoed.

And for a second time that day, Sam understood exactly how John felt. He had no idea, of course, how it was going to go—how long it would take until they started arguing again, or whether they’d be able reconcile as Dean had asked. But, as he watched his dad’s tired face, Sam resolved that, no matter what happened, no matter whether they stayed together or not… they’d be a family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end. Like it? Hate it? Let me know!


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